There will be an answer
by Tashilover
Summary: Thursday didn't fight a war so he could own a slave. Slave!AU.
1. Chapter 1

Thursday felt like a fucking hypocrite. How often had he spoken for slave rights? How much blood had he spilt fighting for them? He went to war- literally- for them. And here he was, buying one for his wife.

He hated this store. He hated being here. It took everything he had not to sneer at the rich women and men who walked through this place, slaves in tow, acting as if owning a human being was a god given right.

He had to remind himself it wasn't for him, it was for Win. Win, who slipped and fell and hurt her hip so badly, it could be months before she was able to walk again without pain. With Sam back in school and Joan taking on extra shifts at the bank, there was no one who could stay home to watch their mother.

Thursday waited uncomfortably at the front desk, hands pressed flat against the shiny wood. Happy-go lucky posters of pretty people smiled down at him, telling him the benefits of slavery and how it improves the economy. Thursday saw less propaganda for the war.

Eventually a young woman came to the desk. Thursday straightened his back, swallowing back his disgust as he suddenly noticed the collar around her neck. "Hello, sir," the slave woman greeted politely. "How may I help you?"

I'm so sorry, was what he wanted to say. "I am here to purchase... a slave."

"Do you have any preferences?"

"Preferences?"

"Yes? Blonde, blue-eyed, short, young, old? Are you looking for a pleasure slave, or a house slave?"

"House slave... I don't care for looks."

How come none of these posters on the walls behind her showed the majority of slaves? The ones with the scars, the owning tattoos, the age lines and leathery skin? The slaves who worked their fingers off, only to be tossed aside when their bodies couldn't handle the stress of their lives any longer?

"All right," the woman said, going through her notes and writing down Thursday's requests. "What's your price range?"

"Two hundred pounds."

The woman looked up at Thursday. "Sir, our average price is five hundred."

"Unfortunately, that's all I can afford." Even with the extra money Joan was willing to sacrifice. "I need someone to look after my wife. She hurt her herself and I can't be home to help her."

The woman tapped her pen against her lips thoughtfully. "I understand the situation is delicate, but we don't have slaves with prices that low..."

Thursday felt both relieved and disappointed. Relieved that he didn't have to throw away his morals and justices he fought for since his early twenties. Disappointed because Win needed this.

"You know what?" The woman suddenly said in revelation. She reached over and grabbed a different file. "I think there's one slave I can sell to you for a hundred pounds... ah, yes, this one here."

She pushed the file over for Thursday to look at. He practically scoffed at the name. _Endeavour Morse_? "Why is he so cheap?"

"He's about to be recycled."

Recycled. Another word for _killed_. Such a fate were usually reserved for those who committed horrific crimes, but slaves were often recycled for other, stupid misdemeanors. Like pleasure slaves saying no. "Why? What did he do?"

"Runaway," the woman said. "Like dozens of times. It's gotten to a point where the company doesn't want to deal with him anymore."

God fucking damn it. If Thursday bought the slave and he ran away, would Thursday care? Would he be angry he just lost a hundred pounds and Winny's caretaker? Or would he be proud that this poor slave fought tooth and nail for his freedom?

"It's a risk, I know," said the woman. "But the slave is fully aware that this could be his last chance. If he is caught fleeing again, he is to be recycled, no exceptions. Personally, sir," the woman dropped her voice low. "If I were him, I wouldn't risk running away again."

Thursday closed his eyes. He couldn't believe he was doing this. If his mother could only see him now. "I'll take him."

()

Morse was quiet.

Exactly what did Thursday expect? For a repeated runaway slave to be chatty? At least they didn't deliver the boy to him covered in bruises. Runaway slaves often felt the hand of their masters, and it was within their rights to punish their slaves. Thursday was afraid the boy would be broken somehow.

He read the file. That was all the boy was guilty of: running away. He never hurt his masters, never killed them, never took revenge. It was amazing the boy went on this long without a misdemeanor on his name.

Morse was skinny, as young people often were. He had giant blue eyes which suited his thin face. He was a handsome boy, and it had Thursday morbidly wonder how many of Morse's masters were women.

"So I hear you're a runaway."

Thursday inwardly winced. He didn't mean to make the statement sound like a veiled threat.

Morse looked at him, but gave no indication he was offended or afraid.

"My wife injured her hip," Thursday said, trying to sound less harsh this time. "She can walk, but not far, and not easily. I need someone to look after her in the day when I am at work."

"May I ask what is it you do?"

Polite, he was. "I'm a police officer."

Morse said nothing to that.

"Look," Thursday began. "I'm going to lay it all down for you. My wife needs help. I don't know for how long. It could be two months, it could be a year, I don't know. So I'm going to make you a deal, Morse. Do your duties. And when my wife recovers, I'll set you free."

Morse's eyes went impossibly wide. Only a master had the power to release a slave from servitude. Too many cruel owners tried using such a ploy to keep said slave obedient, making them think they were only a few steps away from freedom.

Thursday meant it. Once Win was well enough, Morse was free to go.

Something in Thursday's voice must've sounded genuine, because Morse nodded and said, "Yes. In exchange for freedom, I will take care of your wife."

()

Win was asleep when Thursday brought Morse into the house. Hearing the silence and knowing Win was napping, he placed a finger against his lips. "C'mon," he whispered. "I'll show you where you'll be staying."

He took Morse upstairs to the guest room. When he opened the door, saw the made bed, he cursed.

"What?" Morse asked, staring into the room. "What's wrong?"

"Winny made the bed," Thursday said, scowling. "She knows she's not suppose to be moving."

She not only made the bed, but she cleaned the floors, moved out the boxes, and dusted. "Morse," Thursday said. "Will you go downstairs and familiarize yourself with the kitchen? If you can, make a cup of tea. I need to go talk to my wife."

Morse went away silently, his footsteps barely heard on the floor. Very light stepper, he was. No wonder he ran away so many times, nobody heard him.

Thursday went to the master bedroom, and found Win sleeping quietly on their bed. She looked so peaceful, Thursday didn't want to disturb her. Quietly, Thursday sat down on the bed. The weight change of the mattress was enough to stir Win out of her doze. "Mmmhm... Fred?"

"Hey, Winny," Fred said lovingly, swooping down to gently kiss her on the lips. "How do you feel?"

"Heavy," she said. "Like when I was pregnant with Sam? I remember getting so tired..."

"That's because you were cleaning today. You know you're suppose to stay off your feet."

"Yes, but I couldn't stand the thought of leaving such a dirty guest room. Which, by the way," Win said, pushing herself up. "Did you bring a slave home?"

"Yes. He's downstairs, making tea hopefully."

"Oh, wonderful."

Win has never expressed strong feelings for the rights of slaves. She disliked reading about slave abuse in the papers, but didn't share the same hatred of slavery as Thursday did. At least, nothing else, she would never lay a hand on the boy. Never treat him like he was a lamp, ready to be used then tossed if it became broken. "What's his name?"

"Morse. Endeavour is his first name."

Win snorted. Thursday grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. That's why he married her. "Oh my, poor boy."


	2. Chapter 2

Morse was able to find the kettle and a few packets of tea. It took him a little while longer to search for the matches to light the stove. Above him, he heard the muffled voice of his new master through the ceiling, along with a woman's. Morse assumed it was the wife.

The house was nice. Simple. It been a while since Morse worked in a house like this. Most of his owners were ridiculously rich, with more rooms and more slaves than they actually needed. Middle-class folks usually couldn't afford slaves. The ones that have owned slaves often returned them few months later, realizing having another human being in the house was much more expensive than expected. It was more of a sign of social status than anything else.

Though Morse didn't ask for permission, after he set the kettle down to boil, he went to the dinner table in the next room to sit down.

In moments likes these, when Morse had nothing else to do, he often thought about his sister.

For the first few years of their enslavement, Morse had done everything he could to keep in contact with Joyce. He pleaded, he bargained, he begged. A few times he escaped his Master's house just to get a letter into the mailbox. The few times he was caught, he was beaten severely for stealing stamps.

Despite all his attempts, Morse lost her. Last he heard, Joyce was sold to a man somewhere in London.

Morse didn't want to die. Of course he didn't, but he didn't want to die without knowing what happened to Joyce.

There was something about Fred Thursday Morse couldn't put his finger on. Was he telling the truth when he said he would set Morse free?

It wouldn't be the first time a master had promised such things to him. It was a common story shared among slaves, and Morse had heard it many, many times. Masters dangled the promise over a slave's head, only to snatch it away cruelly for small, stupid offenses.

How did it take for a hip to heal? When Morse broke his leg when he was fourteen- he had angered the master's son - it took him two months to heal. Mrs. Thursday was older, though. She had also given birth in the past. Who knew how long it would take for her hip to heal. She could be in pain for the rest of her life.

Morse didn't want to be here for the rest of her life, though.

()

Thursday came downstairs when he heard the whistling of the kettle go off. He had to insist for Win to stay in bed while he went to grab the tea. He also wanted to talk to Morse alone, and give him the general rules of the house.

Morse was just pulling the kettle off the hot coil, ceasing the whistling when Thursday walked into the kitchen. Hearing his footsteps, Morse pulled away from the stove and said a respectful, "Sir."

Thursday had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. This wasn't right. Respect should be earned, not ripped out of you like a cancerous sore. This was going to be tough to get used to. "I'll get the rest of the tea ready," Thursday said. "Go sit down. We have to talk."

It was faster this way. Thursday grabbed Win's favourite mug and a few chocolates for her to nibble on. He also brought with him her pain pills. Seeing them reaffirmed why he was doing this. Why Morse was here in the house.

After he gave Win her tea, and a novel he had purchased on the way home, Thursday took a moment for himself for the following conversation.

"You're a stranger," Thursday said the moment he came into the living room. He internally kicked himself for beginning the conversation like that, but it was already out there. "I can promise you one thing, Morse. No one here will hurt you. I won't allow it. Nor will I allow anyone outside this house harm you. As far as anyone is concerned, you're under my protection."

Morse's eyebrows pushed together, confused of where this conversation was going.

"But you're still a stranger," Thursday continued. "In my house, with my family. If I ever, ever find out you harmed a single hair on their heads, I will not hesitate sending you back. I am a police officer, I would know. Do you understand me?"

Thursday was fully aware if he sent Morse back, it would mean the boy's death. This whole conversation sounded like a threat. But if Thursday had to choose, it would be his family. Every time.

"I understand," Morse said. His voice was strained, perhaps a little scared, if Thursday heard it right.


	3. Chapter 3

Morse cleaned. He cooked, he washed, he took the bins out. He swept, he dusted, he reorganized. He even went down into the basement and cleared out the rats, something of which Thursday hated doing. No matter how many times he tried to keep them out, those damn rodents always found their way inside.

Morse got along with the children, mostly because he stayed out of their way. He wasn't allowed to touch their rooms, but he did help Sam on occasion with his homework.

Thursday added a few new rules for his children to follow too. Though Morse was their slave, they weren't allowed to treat him like one. ("Dad, what heck does that mean?" Joan had said.)

They weren't allowed to overwork him, have him clean up after one of _their_ messes, to purposely make messes for him to clean, to mock him, to have him do chores that were pointless, and lastly, they weren't allowed to 'lend' him out. Already the neighbours were coming over, asking Thursday if they could borrow Morse for a party they were planning.

At first Thursday wanted to tell them where they could stuff it. But when his neighbour added on, "Of course, I'll pay you," Thursday gave it a second thought.

"Morse, the neighbours want you to help them bus their nephew's wedding next week. They'll pay you. Do you want to do it?"

"Yes, sir."

Thursday wondered if Morse misheard him. Morse didn't sound like he was consenting, he sounded like he was confirming an order. Thursday decided to leave it be and watched as Morse disappeared for an evening to help out. When he came back, nearly fourteen hours later, he was practically limping on his sore feet.

"Did they pay you?" Thursday asked.

"Yes."

"Good. How much?"

"A pound."

Thursday thought he heard that wrong. "Wait, how much?"

Morse reached into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. He handed it over to Thursday. Cake frosting had been smeared into the indentations.

That next morning Thursday stomped over to his neighbours' house and raised hell. He came back a half hour later, stuffing a twenty pound note into Morse's hand. "Do what you will of it," he said to the boy.

After that incident, nobody called upon the Thursdays again, not even for tea. Win had complained lightly, saying Thursday had isolated them all, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

()

Morse had no idea what to make of Fred Thursday. Morse has had 'nice' masters before. Not all owners wanted to beat or molest their slaves. Many trusted their slaves with their kids, and many children grew up with them, treating them like family rather than property.

But they were still slave owners. They were people who thought owning a human being was a right, and held no qualms about separating parents from their children if they deemed it necessary.

Like Lady Elizabeth, Morse's first master after his parents died. In all, she owned five slaves and treated them all very kindly. She even allowed Morse to visit Joyce during the weekends. Morse had stupidly thought that truly one day she would set him free if he worked hard enough, long enough to gain her favour.

Then Joyce went through puberty. She was no longer a short, scrawny girl. She had blossomed into a young, well-developed woman and on one visit, she expressed concern to Morse that her masters were paying more and more attention to her.

Fearing for her safety, Morse _begged_ Lady Elizabeth to buy Joyce from her masters. Young girls, however, were more expensive than young boys. As Morse tried arguing with her again, Lady Elizabeth simply said,

"This sort of thing happens to all women slaves. Might as well get it over with."

That night, Morse stole silverware from the house and escaped into the night. He got as far as ten blocks before the police nabbed him.

Lady Elizabeth was not happy, and that next day, she sold Morse to another master who lived across the country. Morse never saw Joyce again.

Morse wasn't getting that same feeling with Thursday. Often times when Morse was serving dinner, Thursday would help out, or he would tell Morse to sit down while he served. Sitting there, at the table with the rest of the family while Thursday poured him soup made Morse feel uncomfortable.


End file.
